54
KATE
“Granny?” I whisper from the doorway to her bedroom, afraid to interrupt her afternoon nap.
When push came to shove, with my finger hovering above the button to charge the credit card, I couldn’t go to Dublin. I couldn’t run away.
I’m out of breath like I’ve run a marathon, instead of just walking a mile from the Foggy Bottom Metro Station. I must have sounded like a madwoman when I flagged down a pair of Georgetown students on Dumbarton Street, begging to use one of their mobiles to contact Nilsson.
He let me into the carriage house. It’s only a matter of time before he tells Wolf I’m here.
My belly swoops at the thought, nausea wrapping around excited anticipation. This might be the biggest mistake of my life.
It might the smartest decision I’ve ever made.
“Granny,” I say again, louder this time. I realize an oxygenfeed snakes over her ears, hissing just beneath her nose. I clear my throat and try one more time. “Granny!”
She startles awake with half a snore. “Kate!” Her face lights with pure pleasure.
I twist my fingers in front of me. “I’m home.”
She stares at me for a very long moment before she finally says, “That’s my brave girl.”
Pure, uncomplicated joy makes me smile. “Do you remember the first time you said that? In Donegal? When I tried the potato candy.”
“Mary Malloy brought it round the first day we were in Athgarven.” Her laughter makes her sound like a child. “You were so afraid to take a bite!”
“They looked exactly like potatoes! What was in them?”
“Sixty grams of butter. One hundred grams of farmer’s cheese,” Granny says, like she’s reading from a hand-written recipe card. Her body may be failing, but there’s nothing wrong with her memory.
I relax in the comfortable chair by her bed as she recites the rest of the recipe—sugar and vanilla and coconut, mixed together and shaped into balls that look like small potatoes, especially when they’re rolled three times in cinnamon.
“We made them for Breagha when we got home,” I remember. “She loved them.”
“That child was born with a sweet tooth. Not like you,” Granny says with a shrewd look. “You’re more the salty type.”
I huff, because she’s telling the truth, even though it sounds like an accusation. Before I can defend myself, though, I hear a soft voice from the doorway.
“Kate.”
My breath freezes in my lungs. My stomach executes a perfect triple axel. My fingers dig into the arms of my chair like I’m trying to burrow beneath a glacier.
I force myself to stand. To turn around. To raise my chin and glare with icy defiance.
“Thank God you’re home,” Wolf breathes, and he closes the distance between us.
His arms fold around me, heat and muscle pulling me close. My cheek rests against his familiar black turtleneck, and I can hear his pounding heart. His fingers spread across the back of my head, weaving into my hair, anchoring me, sheltering me.
Wolf has never held me like this. I’ve never dreamed ofanyoneholding me like this—like I’m precious, like I’m something about to break. But now that I’m here, now that he has me, I can’t imagine being anywhere else in the world.
Not Dublin. Not Baltimore. Not a cheap motel room, walking distance to the Metro.
“Wolf,” I say as something melts inside me, all the jagged edges of the past two weeks seeping away.
“Go on, then,” Granny says, and I can’t believe I forgot she was right beside us. “Let an old woman get her rest. It’s time for my afternoon kip, and I don’t want to be disturbed.”
I pull back from Wolf’s embrace just enough to look at my grandmother’s sparkling eyes. We both know she’s already napped, but she’s determined to play matchmaker.
